"I don't need—"
"Everyone needs." His other hand joins the first, both working my shoulders now with the kind of skill that comes from expensive massage therapists and yoga retreats. "You carry so much, Alena. The writing. The trauma. The weight of being you. Let me ease it. Even just for tonight."
It should feel good. His hands are warm, practiced, exactly the right amount of pressure. He knows what he's doing. He's probably done this a hundred times with a hundred other women. But it doesn't feel good. It feels like a virus invading a body. Foreign. Unwelcome. Wrong on a cellular level that makes my skin crawl even as I sit still and let him touch me. The shadows in the corner thicken, press closer, and for once—for the first time in two years—they feel more like home than this beautiful man on my couch.
"Better?" Oliver asks, still working my shoulders.
"Yeah," I lie, because lying is easier than explaining.
He smiles, pleased with himself, and leans in. His lips brush my neck—soft, teasing, the kind of touch designed to make women melt. I freeze instead.
"Relax," he murmurs against my skin, breath warm and intrusive. "I've got you."
His hands slide lower, down my arms to my waist, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of my robe. I should stop this. Should pull away. Should tell him to leave and take his wine and his black rose and his perfect fucking smile with him. But I don't. Because maybe Lucy's right. Maybe I should try. Maybe this is what moving on looks like—letting someone else touch you, even when every cell in your body isscreaming no. Even when nausea rises in your throat at the thought of his hands going any further.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my cheek, hovering near my lips like he's waiting for permission he's already decided he has.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, and I hate how practiced it sounds. How many times has he said those exact words? How many women have believed them?
I close my eyes. See Drogo's face. Fuck.
Oliver's hand slides under my robe, palm warm against my bare thigh. His touch is confident, assured, moving with the kind of certainty that comes from never being refused. "Is this okay?" he asks, but he's already moving higher, already assuming my answer. "Yeah." The lie tastes like ash. His fingers trace patterns on my inner thigh—circles, lines, deliberate and calculated. I hold my breath, willing myself to feel something. Anything. The desire Lucy insists I should have. The heat that's supposed to build when someone wants you. But there's nothing. Just emptiness and the ghost of hands that aren't his. Just the wrongness of his touch and the nausea building in my stomach.
He leans in and kisses me. It's technically good. He knows what he's doing—the right amount of pressure, the perfect tilt of his head, tongue sliding against mine with practiced ease. He's probably made dozens of women forget their own names with this exact kiss. But I feel nothing. Just the wrongness of it. The way his mouth doesn't fit mine. The way his touch doesn't ignite anything except the desire for him to stop.
His hand keeps moving, sliding higher, fingers slipping under the elastic of my panties. I tense despite myself, every muscle locking up in protest. "Relax," he says against mymouth, like it's that simple. Like my body will obey his commands. "I'll make you feel good." His fingers slide between my legs, searching, finding. He starts to rub—gentle circles, the kind that should build pleasure, that should make me arch into his touch. I fake a gasp instead. Arch slightly. Give him what he expects because it's easier than explaining why I can't respond. Why I'm completely dry, why my body is rejecting him on every physical level.
But inside, I'm screaming. This is wrong. This isn't him. Get out. Get him out. GET HIM OUT.
Oliver's fingers push inside me—two of them, slow and deliberate, like he's done this a thousand times and knows exactly what works. Except I'm not turned on. I'm dry, uncomfortable, my body rejecting this intrusion on every level. His fingers drag uncomfortably, the friction all wrong, painful in a way that has nothing to do with technique and everything to do with my complete lack of arousal. I bite my lip and force out a moan, giving him the performance he expects while my muscles clench tight around the unwelcome invasion, trying to push him out.
He smiles against my neck, pleased with himself. "You like that?"
"Yeah." The lie burns worse than the discomfort.
His fingers move—in and out, curling, searching for something my body refuses to give him. The dryness makes every movement uncomfortable, his fingers dragging against tissue that's tense and unwilling. I'm not wet enough for this. It hurts in a way that has nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with the wrongness of letting someone touch you when every cell is screaming for someone else.
"You're so tight," he murmurs, like it's a compliment. Like my body's resistance is desire and not rejection. "Fuck, Alena—"
The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
The shadows in the corner move—deliberate, angry, alive in ways shadows shouldn't be. They press forward, reaching toward Oliver like dark hands stretching across the room. The temperature plummets so fast my breath fogs between us, visible in the sudden cold.
Oliver pauses, fingers still inside me, and looks up. "That's weird."
The lights flicker again, longer this time. The cold intensifies, frost creeping across the windows in crystalline patterns. My breath comes out in white clouds.
"Is your wiring okay?" he asks, pulling his hand away and sitting up.
"It's fine."
"It's freezing in here." His breath fogs too now, confusion crossing his perfect features.
"Old house." The lie comes automatically.
The shadows reach closer, almost touching him now. I can feel their rage—protective, possessive, furious that this stranger dared touch what belongs to them. What belongs to him.
The lights flicker again and die completely, plunging us into absolute darkness.
